


collared

by Marenke



Series: the quaren-fics [82]
Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: F/M, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, past and implied darklina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26777689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marenke/pseuds/Marenke
Summary: The skin beneath Alina’s collar itches.
Relationships: The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova/Alina Starkov
Series: the quaren-fics [82]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896019
Kudos: 35
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	collared

**Author's Note:**

> whumptober day two, prompt: collars!

The skin beneath Alina’s collar itches. She isn’t sure if it’s an actual itch, or if it’s her mind playing tricks on her. All she knows is that it itches and she cannot scratch it. There’s no space, no give: Alina can’t even put in a finger in there, glued to her skin.

It itches. Alina feels like she’s going to lose her mind.

She never asked for this amplifier, for this blood in her hands, and yet she had no choice: the Darkling handed them over, put it on her neck and called her his pet. These weren’t the exact words used, but their meaning was conveyed loud and clear - she was a tool for him to use as he pleased.

It itches. She scratches at the collar, and it does not move.

Alina rises from her seat on the floor, wanders blindly around the Little Palace. People do not meet her eyes; no, they’re staring at the deer’s antlers in her neck, bone white and a stark contrast against her hair, strands stuck on the little split parts of it. That’s alright, really. Alina also does not meet their eyes, looking to the floor, counting steps.

It itches. Alina knows where to go.

The door of the Darkling’s room gives out easily under her touch, and there he is, reading over papers. He looks up, smiles, but Alina isn’t sure how genuine it is. She used to trust him, once: perhaps even loved him a bit.

He had betrayed her trust, and Alina was left to drift at the sea of him.

“It itches.” She rasps out, and for once, he looks worried. He rises from his seat, and Alina closes the door behind her, resting against it. It feels cool to the touch. It does not help the itching. “Can you take it off?”

If it sounds like begging, Alina won’t acknowledge it. He crosses the space between the two in _one_ , _two_ , _three_ steps, puts a hand to her face. It feels gentle, warm: Alina leans into the touch. She hates the fact she does so, but it’s automatic, a remnant of a time gone, of feelings that lingered.

A starving man won’t deny the food presented at the table.

“I can’t.” He says, and she looks accusingly at him. “I can’t help you with this.”

“Please?”

There’s a hint of shame that crosses by his eyes, so brief Alina, for a moment, deludes herself into thinking she imagined: but no. She saw it.

“No.” He says. Neither of them moves. The Darkling kisses her forehead, lips pressed against her skin for a long moment, and Alina knows, instinctively, that it’s her lips he wishes he could kiss.

But he doesn’t. Maybe he knows, in some dark part of himself, that he’s lost that privilege as soon as he put that collar on her.

It itches. It’s not something Alina can scratch.


End file.
